


Bartolomew

by Kalypso



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Betrayal, Death, Gen, General Unpleasantness, Pre-Canon, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalypso/pseuds/Kalypso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waiting for Avon to return with the visas, Bartolomew pays one last visit to her office in Central Security to make sure she has left no loose ends... but finds an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bartolomew

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Freedom City Birthday Party of 2014. But I'd actually begun it and then abandoned it ten years earlier when I couldn't work out how to complete it. Then, in 2014, a comment on _Rumours of Death_ at Neil Perryman's blog, [Adventures with the Wife and Blake](http://thewifeandblake.com/), reminded me of it. And around the same time I finally saw the 1985 TV drama _Edge of Darkness_ , in which Charles Kay played Pendleton. I'd always imagined that one of the two original characters in this story would be played by Charles Kay (in case you're curious, the other would be Helen Mirren). But I was intrigued to find that I could just about imagine my own character as a Pendleton who had learned his trade in the Federation.
> 
> In the course of trying to finish the story, I remembered exactly why I had given up on it; I don't think it makes sense. It also features one of the least popular characters in _Blake's Seven_ , plus, as mentioned, two who were never in the series at all. But having got to some sort of conclusion, I inflicted it on Freedom City anyway.

Bartolomew keyed an entry code into the lock by the side entrance, and stepped quickly inside as the door slid open. She advanced quietly to the main corridor, dimly lit as it always was outside official hours; good, there was no one in sight. Not that it mattered, really: few of her so-called colleagues knew her face, still less the precise nature of her work. If she was ever challenged, she just flashed a pass, and was waved on. She didn't come to Central Security more often than she had to. When she was on a case, she worked from wherever it might take her. When she wasn't, she retreated to Chesku's rooms in the administrators' quarters. But now she wanted to visit her office for one last time, to tidy up and make sure she had left no loose ends that could lead to her after she had gone.

The visit was also a welcome distraction while she waited for Avon to collect the visas. The exit visas... She sighed as she hurried towards the stairs. It would have been so much easier if she could have arranged the visas herself. Except that Avon would have wanted to know how she had done it, and then he might have begun to suspect who she was. And if he ever found out, then he wouldn't trust her any more, and then...

It was only when Avon had told her he trusted her that she had decided. Until then, the idea that she would go through with this crazy plan, that she would actually leave with him, was just a fantasy. A pleasing fantasy, tempting enough for her to delay completing her report, to play with the idea that she could go away, and leave all this dirty work behind. But last week, while they had been discussing the visas, and whether he could trust the dealer, on impulse she had asked "Do you trust me?" And when he had answered "Oh, yes, I'm afraid I do" - then, suddenly, she was overwhelmed. 

Of course, she had known he must trust her in some degree to come this far. But that he could admit it - that Avon, of all people, could admit to trusting her - somehow, that was even more moving than if he had declared his love for her. Hell, it was a declaration of love, too - but it was the realisation that he trusted her, completely trusted her, that made her feel she was... someone worth trusting, someone with a far greater value than anyone else had given her before now, certainly greater than she had ever ascribed to herself. 

And that was when she knew she had to go with him, that Avon was her only chance of escaping what she had become - what she had made herself. From tomorrow, there would be no more Bartolomew, no Sula Chesku, not even Anna Grant. She would shed those roles, forget them all, and leave Earth as Mara Chevron, wife of Port Chevron, a couple so rich that no one could touch them. And she must be sure that there was nothing left to connect Mara Chevron with Bartolomew, nothing that the Administration might find, and most of all nothing that Avon might ever come across.

Up the stairs (quicker and quieter than the lift), along another corridor, round a corner, and there, for the last time, was the familiar door of her office. She tapped in her personal code, and hurried in, before the door slid shut again... and then she stopped.

The small light on her desk was already on, and there was a man sitting in her chair. He swivelled slowly round, as she groped inside her jacket for a gun. Then she realised he already had a firearm trained on her. But he didn't seem to be in any hurry to use it. Though the light was dim, she could see he was smiling faintly, as if amused by her surprise. A small man, with thinning hair and dark, lively eyes. Yes, she had seen him walking through the higher floors of Central Security once or twice, but they had never spoken.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am Bartolomew." 

She was silent.

"Did you think you were the only one?" He smiled again. "I did once. We all do, until we stumble into another one. They don't bother to tell us how it works." He spoke quietly, but there was a musical quality to his voice; it might have been attractive, in another time and place.

"How _does_ it work?"

"We watch everyone who might be dangerous, inside and outside Central Security - that they have told you - and we also watch each other. You'll find out who the others are, in time. That's what makes Bartolomew so powerful an agent. That's why no one is sure who he is, and why he'll never die - or change sides. There is no escape from Bartolomew. Especially for us."

He put the gun in his pocket.

"So... why have you broken cover?" she enquired. "You didn't just fancy a chat?"

"I'd enjoy that, yes, but I thought it was time to discuss your progress. And I didn't see any reason to keep the truth from you any longer."

He was very disarming, but she had no intention of being disarmed. "That's good of you."

"How do you intend to resolve the Avon case?"

She straightened her back. "He will be arrested as he attempts to leave Earth."

"You're leaving it that late?"

"He's found a man dealing in illegal visas who we didn't know about. Once Avon has collected the goods, we can pull the dealer in too." Had she burnt her bridges now?

He nodded. "And the main operation?"

"Can be closed down as soon as he attempts to move the money. It's actually been a very useful test of banking security."

"What about his political contacts?"

She sighed in exasperation. "There are no political contacts. However often I pushed him, Avon never expressed interest in any cause but his own. He wants to be free, with no one to answer to - the money's just the means to that - but he's not bothered about anyone else."

"What about you?"

"Oh... yes, he did come to include me in his vision of the future."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How did I feel?"

"Were you tempted to escape with him?"

Here it was - how best to deflect it? Probably better not to protest too much.

"In my daydreams, sometimes. Who doesn't like to think of being rich and leaving all their responsibilities behind? But even if I had been serious, I knew we would never get very far."

He smiled. "You were right. You're Bartolomew; you can't leave."

She frowned. "Is that it? Are there any other cases you want to discuss?"

"Are there any you want to tell me about?"

He'd expressed interest in Avon's supposed political activity, so that must be what he was after.

"There's an engineer called Ravella Cotti who's been urging colleagues to fast at least once a week. She's obviously worked out about the suppressants. I haven't had time to follow it up while I've been working on Avon, but I think she's worth monitoring for possible contacts."

Silence. What was he waiting for? For her to give herself away. Should she stop talking, too? But silence on her part might look suspect, and so might an obvious attempt to steer the conversation away from the case she was supposed to be wrapping up.

"Why did you think Avon was political?" she asked.

"The file."

She furrowed her brow. "But the political leads came to nothing. I made that quite clear..."

"Oh, you did. The case caught my attention, because most files grow until the case is resolved, one way or another. The Avon file got shorter."

"I weeded out the irrelevant material."

"Is that all?" He smiled, but this time there was something sad in it. "I was hoping for more."

"What? I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're trying to find in this case..."

"I was hoping that you might be able to help me get away."

She stared at him, incredulous. He wanted to come with her and Avon? A crazy idea - for a start, they wouldn't have a third visa. Perhaps he was intending to kill Avon, and persuade her to leave with him instead. But... "I thought you said escape was impossible?"

"By the route you were planning, yes. But there's always one way out."

"One...?" He couldn't be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.

"Yes, that one. I find myself in need of an assassin."

"You want to die? That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He spread his hands, palms upwards, as if trying to show her he had nothing to hide. "I don't want to live this sort of life any longer, and I know I'll never be allowed to escape."

"It's ridiculous because, if you wanted to die, you'd be perfectly capable of doing it yourself."

"I could, if there was no alternative, though suicide is harder than you might think. I did try recently, and found the instinct for self-preservation unexpectedly strong. That's why old Roman emperors and generals usually got a slave to do it for them. But I fancy an assassination - it's the right sort of end to the life I've led."

"What strange tastes you have." And what an extraordinary way to test her. What on earth was he trying to prove? "Can't you find some rebels to satisfy your wishes? I'm sure they'd find someone in your position a tempting target."

"Oh, I found them a long time ago. But I'd rather not contact them now. The Bartolomew who watches me is getting suspicious, and trying to reach them would be too risky."

"But if _I_ killed you, I'd get off scotfree?"

"If you were careful, yes."

She was losing patience. "I'm sure this game is very amusing for you, but if you're trying to test me, couldn't you come up with a less preposterous story?"

"Of course I could. If I were making it up. You'd fail the test, by the way. You should be encouraging me to talk as much as possible about my disillusionment, so you could report it to your control. Instead, you're trying to focus on your own rectitude by steering clear of any hint of subversion... it's a giveaway, isn't it?"

"OK," she said slowly. "Let's assume it's a double bluff and I'm playing hard to get. Why would you pick on me for the job?"

"I told you - I read the Avon file." Now the smile was grim. "And I didn't just count the words. I know what you deleted."

She was trying to calculate how damaging that might be.

"Quite damaging. Enough to back me up if I tell them _you_ have a political agenda. After all, it made me hope that you might." He sighed. "I'm sorry, I wish I had time to convince you of my motives, but I'm running rather short of it. Can't we agree that my implausibility is my guarantee for a few minutes, just until you've heard me out? Then you can decide what to do."

After a brief hesitation, she nodded. He stood up from her chair, as if to make a speech. She took the opportunity to seat herself in the second chair. Were his hands shaking slightly, or was that a trick of the shadows beyond the desk? How good an actor was he?

"I have worked for Central Security for twenty-eight years, and I've been Bartolomew for the last sixteen. For much of that time, I've been working with dissidents. You know all about our methods - feed them morsels of information to gain their trust, then wolf them down when we're ready. But it's helpful for Central Security to leave a few out there, to keep our channels open and to serve as magnets for the next lot. Gradually, over time, I shifted the balance in the flow of information. I gave the dissidents more, and their leaders and I would choose which pawns to sacrifice when my masters demanded returns. Oh yes, the rebels can be ruthless, too. If someone didn't feel quite right, we turned him in - and I was there to make sure he didn't pass on anything he shouldn't."

"Why did you do it?"

"You, of all people, ask me that? You've been here long enough to know what this place is, and the fact you contemplated running away with an embezzler shows what you think of it. We hate the Federation more than any dissident, precisely because we do know it. The whole system is rotten, and all we do here is advance the rot. In time, it would probably collapse of its own accord, but who wants to wait for that? I was an ambitious young man when I joined up. I wanted to make a difference. In the end, I realised that the only difference I could make would be to hasten the rot with one hand, while sharpening the tool that would pierce it with the other."

Well, the rhetoric was better than Chesku's. If that was saying anything.

"So it wasn't Avon you thought was political. It was me."

"I hoped so. I hope so. Enough to try this." He sat down, his face shining pale in the lamplight. "But in the end, if I tell you to kill me, you'll have to obey. I am your senior officer."

"You say you are."

"Don't you trust me?" he asked.

"Do you trust me?"

A faint smile - did he know when she had last asked that question?

"I trust you to give me a clean death. If not, I'm afraid they would find out more than I'd like to tell them about the Avon case." He gazed into her eyes for a moment, and lowered his voice. "Let him go."

Let him go? It sounded easy, when he put it like that.

"All right."

"You've decided?"

No, of course she hadn't. But it was time to act, and to do that she had to get some cards in her own hand.

"Yes. On conditions. First, you hand over your copy of the Avon file."

"I have it with me. You can search for it once I'm dead."

There was little point threatening him with death in the meantime.

"And you need to brief me on your rebel contacts."

"No. I told you, I trust you with my death. That's not the same as trusting you with their lives. They're my legacy, what I leave from my life's work."

"Your methods, then? Your strategy?"

"No. What you don't know, you can't pass on, willing or forced."

"Then what is the point of all this? You want me to take on a - a revolution without knowing a thing about it - without giving me anything that might help!"

"I'm giving you the thought. The idea. The possibility. The rest is up to you."

"It's not enough. Look, if I'm what you think I am - I'm your legacy, just as much as your rebels. Show you trust me. You said your group was ruthless. Give me a dissident - the next one you were going to sacrifice. The one I can frame for your murder once I've got what he can tell me."

He thought for a while. "Very well. A sanitation worker called Sal Edder. Lives on Level 26. He's had sporadic contact with your Ravella, as it happens, which could be convenient for the cover story."

"And I presume the story, once I've interrogated and disposed of him, is that the group sent him to kill you because they suspected you were about to betray them." _Which wouldn't be so far out; you must be prepared to risk them, whatever you say, because you wouldn't have given me even one name otherwise._

"Yes. It works whether Central Security suspect me or not. Neither side really trusts a double agent, so either side might decide to terminate the risk." He seemed quite cheerful now they were into the detail. "It might even save my reputation if they think the rebels distrusted me more. Posthumous rehabilitation."

"Is that what you want?"

"It doesn't really matter. They're more likely to believe I was in too deep, and lost control. If you can boost your own career, then make out that you stumbled on my activities through your own network and were about to expose me, but the rebels got wind of it and made sure I couldn't talk. Edder's a useful tool, either way."

"Where do you want this killing done? Or would you prefer not to know when it's coming?"

He grimaced. "In an ideal world, I would have preferred not to know, but this _is_ the Federation. Time is running short. Perhaps we should take a stroll towards Level 26."

"Can we risk being seen together?"

"Yes. You've found me out, and are trying to wear me down to confess. You think confronting me with your informant might do the trick."

"And you're ready for this?"

He stood up again. "I'll have to be."

It was still possible that all of this was a test. Her story would have to be that she went along with it because it was her duty to break into the rebel cell he claimed to be shielding.

"Then we'd better go."

She let him out of her office, and locked the door as he stood waiting. She drew her gun as she walked after him; round the corner, down the corridor, to the head of the stairs. She could hear footsteps echoing in the main corridor below; a woman, by the sound of them. She felt him grow tense, sensed his hand reaching towards his pocket. And then the woman came into view, middle-aged, fair-haired, sternly elegant, vaguely familiar - but no time to think about that, she had to see what _he_ was seeing, to anticipate his next move - he was drawing his gun, the woman looked up, startled, and they both froze for a moment, gazing at each other, then he took aim...

She fired. Bartolomew jerked violently, and fell sprawling over the top steps.

*******

"I'm sorry," she said. "I wanted to keep him alive. But he was going to shoot you."

"I'm sorry too," said the older woman - another Bartolomew, she presumed. "I should have been prepared to find him here. I came to arrange his arrest." She shrugged. "He may have done it to force your hand - to ensure he wasn't taken alive. He always was devious like that. What were you doing with him?"

"One of my contacts told me there was a mole in Central Security, and he matched the description. I contrived a meeting with him, trying to discover whether there was any truth in it, and he was quite open - he tried to recruit me for the rebels. I couldn't believe it - I thought he was probably testing my loyalty - until he drew the gun on you. Then I knew."

"It's a pity," said the other woman, looking down at the body. "He was a great agent. But sometimes it happens. Their own brilliance turns their heads, and they think they can change the world, rather than just keep it working. There was a sliver of suspicion about his last mental health check... I've been reviewing all his cases over the last three years, but it's taken this long to be sure. I'd just been authorised to arrest him and all his contacts."

"Sal Edder... we were going to meet someone called Sal Edder, a sanitation engineer..."

"I'll make sure he's on the list for interrogation. Now, we'd better tidy up. No need to call anyone else; it's bad for morale when this sort of thing happens, and we can handle it ourselves. Pick up his gun."

"Where are we taking him?"

"The human waste disposal unit. Do you know it?"

"I know of it, of course, I haven't been there in person... I understand it's somewhere down below, near the interrogation cells?"

"That's it. Several floors down, but we can use the service lift."

They dragged the dead man off the top of the stairs, and half-pulled, half-carried him along the upper corridor and round a corner to the service lift. As they waited for it to arrive, she suddenly remembered him saying that he was carrying the file on Avon, and that she could search for it when he was dead. Would Bartolomew check him before the disposal? Should she offer to do it, and try to palm anything she found, or would that be too obvious? The lift door opened, and they carried him in, and started the descent.

"Should I search him...?"

"There's a scanner at the unit - we can do it there."

The lift halted. The other woman picked up the body by the shoulders, and she took the feet. They lugged him onwards, down another dimly-lit corridor, past side-passages and doors and the usual muffled sounds of shrill machinery and low sobbing. Finally they made a turn to the right, and set their burden down as Bartolomew typed in the door code.

"Here, let's lift him on to this thing... I'll switch on the scanner."

They watched the screen as it displayed details of the dead man's organs and clothes.

"Hm. That's odd. He's hardly carrying anything. It may support the idea that he staged the incident as a form of suicide. I'll take the clothes for further analysis, but I don't think there's anything here."

Had he been lying about the file, or was it hidden too cleverly for the scanner to find? Maybe he'd never had any serious evidence against her, just a hunch that was enough for him to try blackmail. She'd have to hope he'd been lying. Trying to discourage Bartolomew from taking the clothes would be counterproductive. Was there anything else she could do?

"Do you want me to strip him, then?"

"Yes, you may as well, I just need to get this open..."

From the corner of her eye, she could see a hatch sliding sideways, but she was busy pulling at the clothes, sliding her hands into pockets as she tugged them off, feeling his body as well as she could, but the scanner was right: there was nothing.

They struggled to raise the corpse up to the hatch, then toppled him in headfirst. After a few seconds, there were unpleasant noises somewhere below.

"That's it, then," said Bartolomew, as she bundled up the clothes. "I'll arrange for the stairs to be cleaned. Do you know how to sort out the clerical details on the disposal of human waste?"

"Yes." She'd seen that sort of entry enough times. "Though I don't know his name." 

"No need for it. Pick any name. When someone of his status goes off the rails, we don't want it on record. You won't discuss this with anyone below triple-A security clearance."

They walked back to the lift. The other woman got out at the level below hers and nodded briefly before the door closed between them.

She continued up to her own floor, hurried down the corridor to her room, and had to enter the door code twice before her fingers got it right and she could sink down in her chair - the chair he'd been sitting in the last time she'd entered the room.

She still had his gun, she realised. She pulled it out, switched the light back on, and looked at it; an old-fashioned projectile weapon, but probably effective enough. On an impulse she pushed the button that opened the chamber holding the bullets, and emptied them out. And there it was; a tiny data cube. He'd shown it to her right at the start, hiding it in plain sight. He'd kept his promise after all.

She quickly ran it through her computer, just to be sure, but she already knew it was the real thing, before she saw the images and her own findings on Avon.

Avon. She had almost forgotten him in the last half-hour, until the panic over the file, and even that wasn't really about him. She stared at the computer, and twisted an earring - one of the earrings he had given her. Let him go, Bartolomew had said; but what did he mean by that? Could Avon really get away on his own? Well, after what she'd heard tonight, he had a better chance of escaping attention without her. But would he go without her? Avon, who... trusted... her? He wouldn't even try. There was only one way to free him from those ties, whether he made it to safety or not.

When Avon returned... _if_ Avon returned, and found her missing, he would go to Tynus. Tynus had hacked into the lower levels of security, a feat which pleased him mightily. Once she had checked that he hadn't stumbled upon anything that mattered, she had let him continue, sensing that it might become useful. Now it had, though it was probably the last time he should be allowed to do it. Her superiors would readily agree to arrange an off-world posting for Tynus, somewhere a long way away, where there was no danger of a chance meeting... in the meantime, he could monitor one last message, and pass the word on to Avon. Grant, female prisoner, died under interrogation, having revealed nothing about her accomplices. Human waste disposed of.

So that was it. Anna Grant was dead. Mara Chevron would never be born. Tomorrow, she would be Sula Chesku, wife of a minor civil servant with aspirations his intelligence hardly justified and a faintly ridiculous taste for luxury. But now and always she was Bartolomew, a role they would never allow her to leave. There was no escape from Bartolomew.

But who Bartolomew might be... well now, that was something she might yet settle for herself. Had she decided? No, not yet. But tonight had taught her lessons she would remember, about how sometimes an act of betrayal is the best way to keep faith. Yes, she would remember everything she had heard tonight, and in time she would learn to apply it.

Bartolomew locked her office as usual, and walked to the head of the stairs. No trace of blood remained, only a faint smell of disinfectant; by the morning, even that would probably have faded. She descended to the long main corridor, and let herself out of the side door.


End file.
